


Nimulot Encounters: Bait

by NessieCullen9



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: AU, F/M, Nimue meets Weeping Monk, Nimulot - Freeform, Weeping Monk finds Nimue
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26487175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NessieCullen9/pseuds/NessieCullen9
Summary: The Weeping Monk uses Squirrel as bait for fey survivors hidden in the woods, not expecting to catch the attention of the Wolf-Blood Witch. Also posted on FFN, 2020.
Relationships: Nimue/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 100





	1. Bait

“Where are we going? What do you even want me for? I know about you. The one who cries, the Weeping Monk. You kill Moon Wings. Does that make you very brave? Do you hate them because they’re so beautiful, and you’re just so very ugly? Even your horse is ugly, and I love horses. Although, from this angle, you definitely do share a resemblance. You hedge-born naïf.”

It was as if the boy knew he wouldn’t harm children. The Weeping Monk certainly wasn’t bothered by the boy’s juvenile insults—the boy had more courage than many grown men, and his spirited monologue had been entertaining for a while, but the boy was long-winded as well. His age saved him. No adult would so assail his ears and walk away unharmed. This boy was plucky and clever, no doubt; he spoke loudly to catch the attention of passerby, and the Monk allowed it. He could not ask for better, more cooperative bait.

“Get up, you murdering pig.” A pitchfork? The Monk was not at all surprised when the six fey survivors approached him as he feigned sleep. Though they’d been careful to stay downwind, he’d been aware of their presence since twilight. Setting up camp, he’d spotted each of them: Five males, one blonde female, none of them his senior. Five of them had swords on their belts,but not a single sword was drawn on approach. Instead, he was faced with a pitchfork.

“Josse!”

“Squirrel, you alright?”

“Tie him up.”

The Monk stood calmly while his hands were bound, noting the way four of the fey survivors crowded around the fire, not one of them bothering to free the boy from his own bonds. One of them poked at the coals.

“I think we’ve caught the big killer,” the pitchfork wielding Josse spoke again, moving even closer. “Look at the eyes. Shed a few for us, brother.” The Monk’s outward expression gave away nothing, but inwardly he flinched. The mocking tone in Josse’s voice was obvious, but any fey calling him brother... “Get me a nice red one, Grim.” Josse spoke to one of his fey brothers by the fire. Pulling the calm and cooperative Monk toward his own horse, Josse addressed him again. “Ever been dragged by a horse with a hot coal up its bum?”

“What did that horse ever do to you?” The Monk had been prepared to strike, his weeping eyeson the saddlebags hiding several weapons. Eager as he was to quickly slaughter the complacent fools around him, he’d ignored the approaching footsteps—he would kill seven fey survivors instead of six, even better—but he froze as the scent of the new female registered. Turning, he saw a fey girl with long walnut hair and striking blue eyes. In her hand, she held a large sword sheathed and wrapped in cloth, and on her face and hands... wolf blood.

“Nimue!” The boy called her.

“Squirrel! You’re safe!” Nimue ran to Squirrel and knelt before him, untying him immediately.

“I was there, Nimue!” Squirrel continued while the others stood and moved away from the newcomer. “I heard you calling, but I saw the paladin on the hill—I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry I chickened out. I waited there after he chased you off, and the Weeping Monk here came and found me. I should’ve gone with you.”

“No, I’m glad you didn’t,” Nimue insisted. “I was stupid. I was too slow drawing my sword. He had me on the ground and...” The other fey around him forgotten, Nimue had the Monk’s full attention. She was clearly uncomfortable. The little boy gripped her shoulders and gave her a solemn, supportive look.

“He got what was coming to him,” Squirrel said, his tone surprisingly hard... fierce. He glared athis other fey rescuers.

“And anyone else near her would’ve gone with him,” the tallest male said.

“Shut it, Pike!” Squirrel spat, jumping to his feet. Nimue stood and held him back, rolling her eyes.

“Is now the time?” She asked all the other fey survivors, her eyes meeting the Monk’s eyes last. “Do you think he’s the only one still combing the woods? This fire draws attention, and I could hear you talking from quite a way off. Do what you want with him, but spare the horse. We need to clear out of here.”

“On your way, witch,” The blonde female spoke up.

“Piss off,” Squirrel interjected. “This is the third time Nimue’s come back for me. Our whole village just burned to the ground! We need all the help we can get!”

“She’s marked by Dark Gods,” Josse said, his tone matter-of-fact. He was trying to reason with the little boy. “Seems like she’s managing fine on her own—she even found herself a sword, not that she knows how to use one—and she’s got her cursed power, so leave her to it. You’ll be safer with us.”

Squirrel turned on his heel and started stomping away, grabbing Nimue’s hand as if to pull her along. “Squirrel!” Three of the fey called after him.

“Leave him, witch!” The blonde female spoke again, drawing her sword. The Monk inched closer to his horse, closer to the weapons in his saddlebags. Pike drew his sword as well, his eyes on the witch, not the Monk. The blonde female took two steps toward the witch and the boy. The witch whirled, pushing the boy behind her and drawing her own sword. For one long moment, everyone froze, including the Monk. The ornate crossbar and pommel, the ancient inscriptions on the blade, the way the wind itself seemed to recoil from the blade, creating a brief whirlwind... The Monk recovered first, grabbing a knife and cutting Josse’s throat in an instant. The witch wielded the Devil’s Tooth.

Pike and the blonde female rounded on the weeping warrior. The blonde lunged and the Monk caught her blade in the reins, twisting and pulling so the sword was ripped from her grip. The Monk jumped and rolled over the horse’s back, grabbing another knife and throwing it at Pike as he ran around to attack, striking him in the neck and killing him instantly. The blonde knelt to retrieve her sword, but the Monk was faster, picking it up and running her through. He grabbed a small axe next, but as the next fey male approached, the wood handle warped in his hand; the Monk dropped the axe immediately, but instead of taking advantage, his attacker scrambled backward.

“Stop it, you!” One of the remaining fey snarled at the witch. Green vines had appeared on her face and neck, and the inscriptions on the Devil’s Tooth were glowing like embers in the dark. Roots surged up all around the Monk, reaching for his legs. Rushing up to the terrified fey before him, the Monk grabbed the crossbar of the extended sword and heaved, guiding the blade between his arm and his body as he stepped to the side. With a shout of alarm that turned into a scream of horror, the fey swordsman stumbled forward and fell into the grasping roots.

“No!” The witch cried out as the roots wrapped around his throat. More roots sprang up and grabbed the Monk’s feet before he could react, but he quickly cut them with the sword he’d taken, moving farther away. The witch ran to her Sky Folk brother, attacking her own creation with her own sword. The vines on her face and neck had vanished, and she had reached her accidental captive in time, but as soon as he was free he lunged at her. Seeing his opening, the Monk left them to it and attacked the other two swordsmen, easily besting them even with his hands bound.

“Nimue!” Squirrel sprinted toward the witch and her assailant, tackling the latter. Nimue stood and faced the Monk. His eyes locked on hers, he cut the ropes around his wrists. Though the Weeping Monk could take on multiple opponents armed with almost any sword, the image before him made him pause. He’d seen what she could do with the Devil’s Tooth. He’d seen what she could do with her power. She was young, but like her little champion, she was brave and clever. He was confident, but he would feel more confident with his own weapons in hand; his sword and dagger were on the ground by the tree against which he’d pretended to sleep.

“The boy really was perfect bait,” he spoke at last. Nimue blinked at him, surprised by his change of tact and by the sound of his soft, raspy voice. She’d expected the fey-killer to sound cold and commanding, but even as they stood there on the precipice of coming to blows, the sound of his voice was strangely... comforting, compelling... Nimue shook that thought away abruptly, refusing to be taken in as he continued. “After we saw what you did to the wolves, to Brother Odo, I thought hunting you down would be a very different kind of challenge, but you came for the boy too... Three times now, is it? Are you family?”

“As good as,” Nimue admitted. The Monk suppressed a smile. Behind the witch, her fey assailant had fled, and her little champion was standing behind her, the warped axe in his hand.

“They all abominated you?” The Monk asked rhetorically. “Just as this lot wanted to banish you, so did they all.” Nimue took a step forward and the Monk took a small step back, toward his own weapons. “How were you not driven out? If members of your own clan will risk turning their back on an enemy to target you... Well, this can’t be the first time you’ve been attacked.” Nimue refused to respond to the Monk’s taunts, knowing he meant to distract her.

“She sure gets idiots talking,” Squirrel couldn’t resist. “You’ve said more to her than you’ve said to me all day.”

“Squirrel!” Nimue scolded, her eyes never leaving the Monk.

“No!” Squirrel protested hotly. “This is not how things are ending for us! You’re the daughter of the High Priestess! The Hidden named you Summoner! Everyone else here’s dead—just let him have it, Nimue! I’m not afraid of it!”

“Percival!” Nimue hissed. Squirrel smacked her arm.

The Weeping Monk had taken two steps backward while the two were distracted. His weapons were within his reach. Wanting the boy out of harms way, he threw the sword he held so it clattered to the ground right behind his horse—Goliath, his calm and steady stallion, only moved a few yards forward when startled. The boy stumbled backward to avoid the horse while the witch moved forward. The Monk knelt to grab his weapons, swinging them both up in a fluid motion as he stood, stripping them of their sheaths. The action clearly startled the witch; green vines covered her face and neck once more. Eyes on the ground, the Monk missed the branches reaching for him from above. Like the wooden handle of the warped axe, a tree behind him bent as if bowing to him, but its branches whipped forward like two sides of a hunter’s trap. Though he was able to cut a few of the branches away, the Monk was still lifted off the ground as the tree straightened. The branches didn’t skewer him as the witch’s roots had pecked and punctured Brother Odo, merely caging him about fifteen feet off the ground, so he kicked and slashed at the branches, trying to break free. He stopped when he saw the witch standing directly below him, testing the reach of her sword.

Nimue stood only slightly taller than the average young woman. The sword her mother had entrusted to her had a long reach. Standing below the caged Monk and jumping straight up with the sword held over her head, she couldn’t quite reach him. “Just give me a boost,” Squirrel offered. Nimue shook her head and sheathed her sword, wrapping the sheath in the old cloth again.

“You’ll fall off me and break your bones, or he’ll reach you through the branches. We have to get out of here.” Nimue kicked dirt on the fire and Squirrel went to help her, scooping up handfuls of dirt loosened by her bewitched roots. Once the fire was smothered, Nimue took Squirrel’s hand and dragged him over to Goliath. She lifted the boy up without preamble, helping him into the saddle. “Ride toward the river, then leave the horse and walk in the shallowwater—”

“Wait, wait a minute,” Squirrel objected. “What’re you saying? Get on.”

“Stick to the water as long as you can,” Nimue continued. “It will hide your trail—”

“Nimue!”

“I’m sorry, but you heard him, Squirrel. The Red Paladins saw what I did to that other man. It’s only a matter of time before they see all this. Only our new friend here has seen you, but they’ll hunt me down. If they catch you with me, they’ll burn you with me.”

“So be it!”

“No, Squirrel!”

“Nimue—”

“Enough! You listen to me!” Nimue seized the boy’s small hands in hers and held his gaze. In the dark, the tears in her eyes were invisible, but her quivering voice gave her away. “Mother asked me to do something right before they killed her. It’ll be dangerous, but it was her dying wish. I have to go. I didn’t argue with the others because I needed you to go with them, but things got of hand so quickly—I’m so sorry, Squirrel. I kept coming back for you because I needed to know you were safe, but you won’t be safe with me now. Make your way to the villages already burned. Find the other survivors. Squirrel, for me... you have to survive for me.”

“Then you have to do the same for me,” Squirrel insisted. “We’ll see each other again.”

“Squirrel—”

“Say it, Nimue, or I’m coming with you whether you like it or not.”

“We’ll see each other again,” Nimue said with all the confidence she could muster. Squirrel took up the reins and gave the great horse a light kick. Goliath obediently moved forward. Squirrel refused to say, ‘Born in the dawn.’ He wasn’t going to say goodbye to Nimue, and that was as good as saying goodbye. They would see each other again, Squirrel was sure of it, but as soon as he was out of earshot, Nimue whispered, “To pass in the twilight.”

Nimue turned back to the Monk just as another branch fell away. He wasn’t free of his cage, but it was only a matter of time. Staring at him, she considered calling to the Hidden again, but he had evaded her first attack so easily... if she accidentally freed him without dealing a fatal blow, he would cut her down in a second. No, this was not a game of dice in a tavern, and even that attempt at fixing the odds had backfired horribly. Her best chance was to leave him and run. Lost in her own thoughts, Nimue jumped slightly when she realized the Monk’s eyes were on her, piercing her.

“I will find you,” the Weeping Monk warned. Despite herself, Nimue smiled.

“We’ll see each other again.”


	2. Seeing Red

The Weeping Monk wiped his blade again. The pain from his most recent lashing didn’t bother him at all; the reminder of his failures sharpened his focus. The girl—the little boy had called her Nimue—she was young, but she was brave. She’d infiltrated Yvoire Abbey. The Monk remembered her last words to the boy she called Squirrel—her mother, the High Priestess of Dewdenn, had charged her with a dangerous task—but venturing into enemy territory alone required nerves of steel and no small amount of cunning. What had been her objective? She’d finished off Brother Odo, but the fey-killing Monk knew she was no hunter; she would not have placed herself in such danger to kill a single foe. She’d burned several maps and scrolls of information he’d collected for Father Carden, but it was surely a stroke of luck that she got her hands on them. She had reached the abbey ahead of them, so it was unlikely they featured in her plans at all. Why had she gone to Yvoire Abbey? The Monk had no answers, but he did have a new lead. She was not in the caravan he’d stopped, but her scent had been all over the occupants. The little Snake Clan girl he’d spared had embraced the witch, he could tell. Perhaps that was the key to catching her? The Weeping Monk and the Wolf-Blood Witch went out of their way to protect children, not that anyone but the witch knew of the Monk’s weakness, and as for the witch... The Monk shook his head. Protecting innocents did not make her innocent. She was scorned by her own kind, a particularly fearsome demon among demons. No amount of lashing would break his belief that fey children were innocent and pure, but this Nimue was no child; some years ago, she’d crossed an invisible but distinct line, succumbing to a dark power that favored her among others. He would find the young witch, and by steel or by fire she would fall.

A clanging broke the Monk from his reverie. He’d foolishly let his mind wander while watching the Snake Clan girl fleeing into the trees. Turning, he saw a wagon approaching. “The Lord smiles on us today!” The red-robed men at the reins greeted him jubilantly. A third paladin leaned out of the wagon as it slowed without stopping. His face was bruised and bloody, but he smiled at the Monk as well, revealing a chipped tooth.

“You fight with honor, brother,” the bloodied paladin addressed him, “but a reprobate thief had better luck with the witch.”

Though it was delivered in good humor, the Monk bristled at the slight. He had been duly punished for his mistakes and he would redeem himself. As the wagon passed, a strange whispering filled his ears... no... it wasn’t truly audible... It reminded him of the voices of the Hidden, voices he had forced from his mind until they were well and truly exiled from his being. Turning to run after the wagon, he easily caught up, and there he saw it between the paladins at the reins. “The Devil’s Tooth.” Was the fey sword somehow calling him? He would never forget the moment the witch had drawn the sword on her own kind—the inscriptions had glowed in the night and the very air around her had recoiled, but it had been silent.

“We’ll deliver it to Father Carden before nightfall.” His red brothers clearly heard nothing; they stared at him, surprised by his behavior. He tore his eyes from the blade, schooling his features into his usual mask of impassivity. 

“Share your news with our brothers up ahead,” he said. “And tell Father Carden I’ve found fey symbols in the wood, directions to a haven for survivors.” His brothers cheered as they rode on, taking the whispering sword with them. 

“Fool,” the Monk whispered to himself as he turned and pressed his back against the broad trunk of a great oak. “Demon,” he hissed as the rough bark scratched his raw wounds through his cloak and tunic. “It knows what you are. It calls for the witch and you respond without pause...” Thoughts of the whispering sword made him flinch. The whispers brought with them those faint memories of the Hidden. The Weeping Monk fought the urge to scream in rage. He had come so far. He would not be led astray. Clenching his fists, nails digging into his palms, he turned his marked face toward the heavens and prayed.

“Where’s the little girl?!”

How had she slipped by him? He’d been lost in thought again and the witch had come within earshot. She’d found the smuggler’s wagon. She was looking for the Snake Clan girl, but her search would bring her near the sword, and if it called to him it would surely scream her name. Nimue! Nimue! Nimue!

“Nimue!” A young man bellowed. Passing the empty wagons on the road, the Monk followed his voice. The young man’s scent was human, but the complex, loamy scent of the fey girl clung to his quarry like a cloak. The thief? Her savior from Hawksbridge? The Monk drew his sword as he caught up with the young man. Hearing the screams of his brothers up ahead, he slashed at the young man’s legs without breaking stride. With a startled yelp, the witch’s ally dropped to the ground. Unarmed and wounded, he was more of a distraction than a threat. 

Another scream, the clash of metal... the witch had found her sword. Arriving too late to save his red brothers, the Monk found all but one of them dead in the water. The witch was soaked from head to toe, slashing at the last paladin standing; she was clearly untrained, but she attacked with furious focus, the Devil’s Tooth finding blood without finesse. The weeping warrior did not wait for the witch to notice him. Leaping into the bloody red water, he struck. 

“Khodulai!” The Snake Clan girl, Cogaira, had watched her father die in shocked silence, but the Sky Folk warrior emboldened and inspired her. The little girl remembered the young woman’s comforting smile, her silly faces, and here her blue-eyed friend had returned—she was avenging all the fallen fey, cutting down all the terrible red-robed killers. For reasons unknown to the little girl, the Weeping Monk had spared her, but she would not keep quiet for him. She would not let him hurt her brave new friend. 

Hearing the little girl’s cry of warning, Nimue turned just in time to block the Monk’s blade, but seeing him in the daylight, meeting those piercing blue eyes framed by serpentine black markings, she thought herself a reckless fool. Enraged and reunited with the renowned sword in her hands, she had followed delusions of grandeur to a violent end. Unable to parry under the Monk’s strength, Nimue moved backward, but there were too many bodies in the way; she lost her footing and she fell, swinging her sword frantically while she scrambled to her feet again.

“You have no idea what you’re doing.” The Monk only took a small step back to avoid her panicked hacking. “You were better off without the sword. You escaped Yvoire Abbey because you weren’t foolish enough to try fighting your way out.”

Nimue’s clothes were stained red and they clung to her body, chafing and weighing her down, and she was afraid she would slip and fall again if she moved, but she held her sword high and fought to keep her face blank as the Monk spoke. She wanted to bite back, to taunt him for letting her escape, but he afforded her no such chance. Right, left, right again, the Monk’s blade flashed like lightning, metal clashing like thunder as she blocked, parried, and soon lost her balance. The Monk’s sword pierced her right shoulder and she nearly dropped her sword. 

“Khodulai!” The little girl screamed.

“Nimue!” Arthur had reached them. His left sleeve was torn off, tied around what was clearly a deep cut below his right knee, but he rushed into the water without pause, grabbing a paladin sword and attacking. 

With a rumble of frustration, the Weeping Monk drew his dagger and threw it at the young man. The dagger clipped his upper arm as it flew, missing his heart as he tried to evade the attack, but the new wound made him pause for a few seconds. Seizing his opportunity, the Monk rushed at the witch, taking her by surprise with a tackle. As he expected, the witch dropped her weapon when she found herself pinned underwater. She had not been trained to cling to her weapon under any condition. She was a witch, not a swordsman. She was a witch... a fact she and the man attempting to drown her remembered at about the same time.

Arthur had raised his sword to strike, but he stumbled backward when roots surged up from the ground, wrapping around the Monk’s ankles and dragging him off Nimue, pulling him underwater as well until he cut the roots away. While he struggled, Nimue surged upward, gasping for breath and searching the red water for her sword. She could hear it whispering to her. When her fingers wrapped around the rough, detailed pommel, the whispering became sharper, as if the sword was scolding her. The Monk reached for her again and she swung her sword in his general direction, forcing him back while she got to her feet and rushed to dry land. Arthur followed her, ducking and rolling to the side when a tree in front of them bent like a strung bow, whipping forward to strike the Weeping Monk where he stood in the lake.

“Phuthu?” Little Cogaira was frightened, but she emerged from the tree line and moved closer to Nimue. Arthur moved to stop her, but she shook her head and pointed at Nimue, then at the tree bent over the Monk. The weeping warrior had chopped a few branches off the bewitched tree, but when more roots surged up to hold him in place, it became clear he was fighting a losing battle. Arthur gave the girl his full attention so Nimue could focus. Cogaira touched her cheeks and pointed at the green vines on Nimue’s cheeks; she hadn’t seen those before. “Phuthu?” Witch. She was asking if Nimue was a witch. Her eyes widened as the tree finally straightened, lifting the Weeping Monk out of the lake in a cage of sword-splintered limbs. She pointed at the tree, then at Nimue again.

“Yes, that’s her doing. It’s alright. We’re safe now.” Cogaira wasn’t afraid of Nimue, but she noticed Arthur was trembling slightly. She’d only seen ten summers, but she knew the young man didn’t like what he didn’t understand. Humans attacked the fey because they were different. This human was kind and brave—he wasn’t treating her differently because of her scales, or because she did not speak the way he did—but he was human. Nimue was breathing heavily and she was soaking wet, but Cogaira walked right up to her and hugged her, scaled Snake arms circling the waist of the Sky witch. All fey were brothers, sisters, and her sister had come looking for her.

“You don’t harm children?” Nimue asked as she caught her breath, looking up at the caged Monk. He glared at her.

“And you can’t seem to kill me.” Nimue looked down at the girl beside her when the Monk spoke, trying to hide the blush that colored her cheeks. It’s just his voice, she thought to herself. He was a horrible, heartless murderer. Nimue told herself it was only his voice she found attractive, but she clenched her fists in frustration when she met his eyes with hers—Gods and Hidden help her, she would never forget how those eyes looked up close. “Will your people laud you for sparing me twice?” His casually taunting voice snapped her back to attention. “You clearly have no qualms about killing my brothers—”

“You’ve slaughtered hundreds of fey without pause!” Nimue bristled.

“And still you are content to walk away, leaving me temporarily caged!” The Monk’s voice whipped. Arthur took a couple steps toward the tree, raising his stolen paladin sword. “Let the witch come to me! Stand down, thief, and let your lover claim her prize. Kill me, Nimue.” His harsh voice abruptly softened, relaxing into an alluring, gravelly purr. Nimue started at his use of her name. The Monk noted her reaction and he shifted forward as much as he was able. His dagger was in the water, but his sword was an extension of his arm; if he could tempt or provoke the witch, if she came within striking range, he could still kill her. 

“I tried to reach you last time,” Nimue argued. “I want to kill you, but you end up caged.” Nimue glanced at Arthur, at the girl beside her—she worried they might believe what the Monk claimed, that she spared him by choice.

“It’s true,” the Monk remembered their last encounter. “You wield your magic like you wield that sword. Like a child throwing stones, you miss your mark a dozen times and run away when you break something.” Nimue gaped at the Monk for a moment, but then her features hardened in anger. When green vines reappeared on Nimue’s face, Arthur backed away without thinking. The Weeping Monk’s lips did not move, but he smiled, triumph glittering in his eyes. The tree began shifting and he braced himself. The Snake Clan girl recognized the renewed threat and shook her new friend’s arm. 

“Khodulai!” No. “Khodulai!” Stop. 

Nimue looked down, and the fear in the little girl’s eyes made her stop. The whispers of the Hidden faded. Even the whispers of the sword were brushed aside, the call for blood already sated. The girl did not fear her. She was pointing at the Monk. Looking up at him again, Nimue noticed the way he was poised to spring. He’d been taunting her, trying to provoke her so he could get free. On the ground, he had the advantage. Her body ached, a reminder of his strength. Bolts of sharp pain shot down her right arm from her wounded shoulder. He had stabbed her. He had nearly drowned her. She had no idea why her magic was only trapping him, not harming him, but he would kill her if they came to blows again. She was the Wolf-Blood Witch, but she fought like a child throwing stones. He was the Weeping Monk, and he fought like he’d been born with a sword in his hand.

“Let’s go,” Nimue told Arthur, tearing her eyes from the Monk.

“Khodulai!” Cogaira warned Arthur away when he glared at the Monk, moving closer to the caged warrior.

“Arthur, we’re leaving. Now.” Nimue ordered. When Arthur didn’t move, she went to him, Cogaira taking her hand and walking with her. “You want redemption? You want to call yourself an honorable man? Arthur, would your father kill a man in a cage?” Arthur clenched his jaw, but he lowered his sword. Turning, his tormented brown eyes met Nimue’s, and he cursed himself again for robbing her, for abandoning her. He would find his honor, and she would lead him.

The Weeping Monk watched as the witch and her companions disappeared into the wood. She spoke of honor? He looked at the six red-robed bodies in the red lake. Red Lake, that’s what it would be called as word of this fight spread. True, she fought them alone, killers of her kind, but she fought with an evil fey sword. He would not soon forget the way the sword whispered. It had surely whispered to her, urging her to kill him, but at the bidding of a child she had given up her prey. He had wounded her, but she left him relatively unscathed. She kept her human companion from attacking him. She offered the young thief redemption... She was his enemy. That was all he needed to know.


End file.
